Diamond
by wildiris21
Summary: What if Snow hadn't shaken his head in answer to Katniss's inquiry at the end of the Victory Tour? Whispers of the rebellion would still be growing louder, but the Quarter Quell would be different. What choices would the characters make? An alternative to Catching Fire.
1. Secrets

**Disclaimer**: Characters, setting, scenes and main story are the property of Suzanne Collins. Some dialogue has been lifted from _Catching Fire_ for this piece.

Chapter 1: Secrets

When he pulls back, his fingers digging into my arms, his face smiling into mine, I dare to raise my eyebrows. They ask what my lips can't. _Did I do it? Was it enough? Was giving everything over to you, keeping up the game, promising to marry Peeta enough?_

In answer, he gives an almost imperceptible shrug.

It's not a yes – but it's not a no. I know what it means. It means we have to keep trying, acting, pretending. It means he's going to lead us on, and take everything we've got, and in the end it probably still won't be enough. But he won't give me the satisfaction of knowing that now, because he knows that would make it almost too easy. Ha. Easy. That's an interesting choice of word for the situation.

I don't know what I was expecting, really. Of course he's going to string us along. We might be victors, but we're still pieces in his game. We always will be.

My only consolation is that if I haven't failed – yet – I may have time to find a way to keep the people I care about safe. There are no guarantees, and Snow may already be plotting their punishment, but I will have to make sure that it won't be because of any bad acting on my part.

So I smile, and try to block out the smell of blood and roses.

The party at President Snow's mansion is flamboyant and utterly nauseating. Tables upon tables weighed down by so much food it's a miracle they're still standing. Peeta and I are joined in one way or another as we clasp hands, dance, mingle with people that constantly seek us out, and try as much of the weird food as we can. I feel as though my face will soon ache from smiling, and though Peeta looks genuinely happy, I know better. Because I've spotted something in those blue eyes of his since I first suggested the proposal; something barely perceptible, but which makes me want to hurt whoever is causing it, which is ironic because it's actually me.

But I have no secrets from him anymore. As we dance slowly after a particularly ghastly discovery of the ways of the Capitol, I whisper in his ear about Snow's reaction, making sure to keep my expression neutral. Peeta stiffens slightly, but otherwise gives no indication that he is bothered by this news. This is not the place.

Just then Portia appears with a large man who looks vaguely familiar.

"Katniss, Peeta, this is Plutarch Heavensbee. He's the new Head Gamemaker," she says pleasantly.

He holds his hand out to each of us. "It's nice to officially meet the starstruck lovers," he smiles. I suppose he thinks he's being funny, or ironic, or both. He turns to Peeta.

"May I borrow your lovely fiancée for a dance?" he asks him. Before I can protest, Peeta is letting go of my hand. He gives a tiny bow, and says, "Just don't get too attached," with a small laugh. How does he do it? How does he switch on and switch off his emotions like that? I wish I could. My face, I'm sure, looks rather uninviting, not least at the prospect of having a Gamemaker put his hands around my waist. I'm almost sure I'm going to squirm if he does, but he seems to understand. He holds me at arm's length, and that's when I realise why he looks so familiar.

He's the Gamemaker who fell into the punch bowl when I shot that arrow at their table last year. This will be unpleasant.

He doesn't seem too scarred by the incident, though, or particularly cold towards me. We make small talk for a while, and I congratulate him on the promotion.

"Between you and me, there weren't many takers for the job," he replies, nonchalant.

You don't say.

"Are you planning the Quarter Quell already?" I query, trying to keep the conversation going.

"Oh yes," he replies, "well, they've been in the works for years, really. I've got a strategy meeting tonight, if you can believe it." Saying this, he pulls out a gold watch, flips open the lid, frowns, and says, "I'll have to be going soon." Then he tilts the watch so that the light catches its face just for a second, and I stare.

"It starts at midnight," he says, snapping the lid on and tucking it away into his pocket. But I'm sure he must know from the expression on my face that I saw what was on the dial.

A mockingjay. Why does the Head Gamemaker have a mockingjay on his watch? Is he just trying to keep abreast of Capitol fashions, or is he trying to tell me something?

"That's very pretty," I say, looking at him carefully.

He merely tells me the meeting is supposed to be a secret, and to not tell anyone about it. With a small bow, he bids me farewell, saying, "See you next summer, Katniss. And congratulations on your engagement."

That night, I'm standing on the face of a giant clock in my dream, trying to outrun the relentless tick-tocking hands, but it's no good. I begin to scream as the hour hand swings close to me, razor sharp, threatening to slice me in two…and wake up in Peeta's arms.

"Katniss! Katniss. It's okay. You're fine, I'm here," he whispers, his face close to mine, his hand gently pushing back the hair from my face. "Shh. It's okay." Gradually, my heart and breathing slow down. He begins to withdraw, but I snatch his hand wildly.

"I'm just getting you some water," he says, but I still don't let go. He hugs me tightly then, asking, "What is it? What was the dream?"

I tell him.

"A giant clock…", he says thoughtfully. Then his arms begin to loosen again, and he moves away, his back to me. Huh.

"What?" I ask. He doesn't turn, but replies, "Is it…is it because you feel you're running out of time? With the engagement, and…" he stops. Then, "I'm sorry, Katniss."

Poor Peeta. He loves me so much and he still feels like he has to apologise for it. I can't see his face right now, but I'm pretty sure that awful look in his eyes is back.

"No, Peeta, that's not it," I say, even though it's not completely true. Of course I feel trapped. And I know he knows this, because I haven't ever hidden it from him, or even made an effort to. I'm that selfish. But now he's blaming himself for my nightmares.

"No?" he replies.

"Not really, I don't think. We're barely seventeen, Peeta. Even the Capitol can't marry us off at seventeen," I say, hoping against hope I'm right, even though I'd much rather not find out.

"Hmmm. Plus, your mother wouldn't be pleased," he says finally, and I can hear the smile in his voice. I laugh slightly, relieved, and get up for a drink of water. Peeta goes to the bathroom, and then climbs into bed with me again. I don't protest. That clock was scary.

I'm not sure why, but I don't tell him about Heavensbee's watch. I mean, it was just a mockingjay fashion thing. Big deal.

* * *

We're home.

The cameras still follow us, though. We wave at the people of District 12 at the station, and then we're shunted around to get prepped for the victory dinner at the Mayor's house tonight. I feel a bit relaxed, because a dinner at the Mayor's house isn't half bad, and his daughter Madge and I have become friends. She won't take back her mockingjay pin, even though it's served its purpose. We grew close in the months after my return, when I was avoiding Peeta and Gale was in the mines.

And tomorrow, I will be with Prim again, at our house, and then I can finally begin to plan my next course of action.

I'm looking for Madge because I've got some time to kill before the dinner begins, trying not to trip up on my silver gown, when I see it. The television is on in one of the rooms I peep into, and the sight of my own face staring down from countless banners catches my attention. District 8. But this is live footage, not from when we were there a few weeks ago. I see a mob, and masks, and fire, and chaos, and Peacekeepers shooting, and people throwing anything they can get hold of.

This must be what President Snow calls an uprising.

I don't linger, but my thoughts have been sufficiently disturbed. If this is what it's like in District 8, what is happening in other districts? In District 11? And how on earth would me marrying Peeta stop something like this? It couldn't. It's too far gone. Surely Snow must know this.

So what is he playing with us for?

A little voice in my head tells me that he wants to control us because he blames us – me – for causing the rebellion in the first place, but that the worst is yet to come. And it won't be in the form of a wedding gift.

I head downstairs to the dining hall where guests are already picking at canapés and chatting. I don't want to be in the limelight – or followed by the camera's eye – until I absolutely have to, so I stand in the doorway and watch. Peeta is here already, and he's talking to my mother and Prim. My mother seems to be replying with what almost looks like affection. Even though she disapproves of our engagement because I'm too young, I can tell that she has a soft corner for Peeta. She's grateful to him for looking out for me in the arena, but this is about more than a sense of owing. She actually likes him. It's not hard to see why. Peeta has a talent for winning over the coldest of people.

And Prim – Prim looks at Peeta with what can only be adoration, laughing as he jokes around with her. It's a nice sight.

My eyes wander and fall upon Gale and Madge talking, slightly away from the rest of the crowd. Well, Madge seems to be doing most of the talking, anyway. So that's where she was.

"Come on, mockingjay, you got a camera to smile for," comes a raspy voice behind me, which I recognise as Haymitch's.

"In a minute," I retort, because I know he's trying to work me up. Haymitch doesn't care about punctuality or presentation, and Effie hasn't begun to hyperventilate yet.

"Ooh, what's got your knickers in a twist?" he taunts, adopting an affected Capitol accent. I ram my elbow into his rib unceremoniously – but stealthily – making him slop his drink all over his jacket. He snarls at me as I walk away, throwing him a sneer over my shoulder.

We've all got to run away. That's all I can think all through the party. What I saw on the television worries me on more levels than I can imagine, not least the fact that they were brandishing my face around. How did this happen? I didn't ask for this. I was only trying to get out alive, which is what tributes are supposed to do. What a mess. What a nightmare.

* * *

Gale won't run away with me.

I asked him first, sure he would say yes. How could he not, after his best friend had been reaped? It had been his idea to run away last year. This year, his name won't be in the reaping bowl, but his brother's will. Only once, it's true, but look how the odds were against Prim. And besides, I thought he would welcome the chance to not pretend to be my cousin anymore.

At first, he agreed. He was excited, delirious, almost. Then, he said he loved me. Boys are the most distracted creatures on this planet. I tried to tell him I didn't want to think about anything like that right now, and I was just relieved he'd agreed. But he started to get consistently grumpier as I mentioned details, and the fact that Haymitch and Peeta would have to come along. Or, at least, I had to give them the option to. He seems rather jealous of Peeta, like Peeta is of him, but that's not my problem.

Then I made the mistake of mentioning the uprising, and lost him entirely.

I should have known he'd want to fight. He always has been rebellious. Toward the Capitol, especially. So have I, in my own way, but I wouldn't do anything reckless. Um, apart from threatening to commit suicide with the boy I "love" to deprive the Games of a victor.

Maybe Gale's right. Maybe we _should_ rebel. But how?

My resolve slightly weakened from the meeting with Gale, I decide to talk to Peeta next. To be honest, I'm a little afraid of confronting Haymitch. He'd probably laugh at me, or squash my plans like a bug under his merciless reasoning.

Peeta says yes. Of course he does. Because even if he thought I was wrong, or stupid, he wouldn't let me go out there alone. Just like I couldn't not give him the choice of coming along. We look out for each other.

I tell him everything, not even leaving out the face on the banners in District 8. He looks nearly as worried as I feel, and says, "The whole engagement thing just feels rather pointless, doesn't it? If it's this bad, there's nothing the starcrossed lovers could do to stop it."

I nod. "That's what I realised, too. Which is why I'm scared, Peeta. Don't you see? President Snow's plans for us are far from over, I feel sure of it. I'm scared. I don't know how he's going to punish me."

"So what do we do? We can't just…run. It's not that simple. Plus what about your mother and Prim? And Gale? His family? Haymitch?" I notice that he doesn't mention his own family, as though he puts the people I care about above those he cares about.

"Gale won't go. I asked him already," I say, hanging my head.

"Oh, Katniss."

"What? I can go without him," I reply, but my voice wavers.

Peeta is silent. I can tell he doesn't believe me. To be honest, I'm not convinced myself.

Finally, I sigh in defeat. "President Snow knows he's not my cousin. And…and Posy, Vick, Rory…they're all just babies. If I – we – left, they'd be the first target."

"Yes, they would," says Peeta gently.

"So?"

"So…we can't run."

"We have to! I'll convince Gale somehow."

"Katniss. I don't think you can. Gale seems like the type who'd want to stay and fight, not run away and leave his District to fend for itself. There will be consequences, you know."

"I don't care! I don't care! I've had enough, and it's going to get worse!" I start to become slightly hysterical, afraid that I'm going to cry, but Peeta wraps his arms around me and speaks soothingly.

"Look, let's give it some time, alright? Let's try to find out what's going on in the other districts. Then maybe we can come up with a plan that won't leave everyone so vulnerable, including us – Katniss, they're going to be back to take us to the Games as mentors in a few months. Let's just think this through a little, instead of being impulsive and making things worse."

Damn Peeta and his magical powers of persuasion.

"You know I'm not saying no, right?" he says, almost as though he read my thoughts. "I'm worried too, Katniss. We'll keep our eyes and ears open. And if we see a window, we'll run. I promise."

I decide to believe him.

* * *

For the next few weeks, things are eerily calm. I don't mean that nothing's changed, but none of it seems particularly directed at me or Peeta. Things are changing, though. District 12 has a new Head Peacekeeper, and the word 'brutal' doesn't even begin to describe him. The square has transformed, with a metal post and chains where people are now regularly whipped for the pettiest crimes. I didn't know about it because I spent most of my day in the forest, but then people began to show up at our house, supported by others or sometimes on makeshift stretchers, the skin on their back broken and bleeding. The Hob is emptier now, and more than one person has told me to keep away from the forest. Gale refused when I mentioned it to him (I think he just wants to refuse anything I tell him these days), but he only goes there on Sundays. I'm the one who would get into trouble.

So I stop going for a few weeks, and I don't know what to do with myself. Sometimes, I visit Madge, and try to sneak around her house to see if I can catch a glimpse of any other snippets meant for the Mayor's eyes. Sometimes, I turn on the television in our house, aimlessly switching channels, but they would never report unrest on there. All the media broadcast into the districts is heavily controlled by the Capitol. Once or twice, I've even gone to watch Peeta bake. He doesn't need to work anymore, but he still does it, just like I still hunt. Watching him as he whips and mixes and ices is oddly calming, and it has its perks, like free blueberry muffins straight from the oven. My evenings are for Prim.

One afternoon, Prim returns from school buzzing about a mandatory viewing that night. She has no idea what it's about, but it makes my stomach clench. Everything related to the Games is mandatory viewing, of course, but the Games aren't for months yet. What could it be? An announcement from President Snow…about what?

I'm restless the whole day, and at seven, we finally switch on the television and sit on the couch together. None of us has really talked about it, but then my mother says, almost to herself, "It must be the reading of the card." I have no idea what that means, but I suppose we'll soon find out as Caesar Flickerman's giant grin blinds the screen.

The programme is about the Quarter Quell.

Caesar rambles on in his flamboyant fashion, explaining the nature of the Quell and emphasising certain words like "rebel" and "lesson". It all sounds a bit silly coming from someone with purple hair, but then he waves forth President Snow, and my palms are clammy. I can almost smell blood and roses as though he were there with me in the same room.

Snow waits for the anthem to fade, and then narrates the circumstances of the previous two Quells that have happened so far. "And now, we honour our third Quarter Quell," he says, as a white-clad boy hands him an envelope with a '75' emblazoned on it. He makes a fuss about opening it, as though he were going to present someone with an award, but finally reads out the card.

"For the seventy-fifth Games, no one will be allowed to volunteer in place of the tributes that are reaped."

What an anti-climax. It's not great, but it's certainly not as bad as electing tributes or fighting against double the number of tributes. This doesn't make sense. No one except Careers ever volunteers anyway, so how…

And then it hits me. This is the sign I've been waiting for. A sign that indicates Snow's intentions, his position, where he thinks I stand in the entire scheme of events that have been unfolding in the last few months. His punishment.

Because it could not be clearer that his words were aimed at me. No one ever volunteers except those tributes who have been training their entire life to kill others, to whom victory is a matter of pride – except me. I volunteered, I went into the arena though I wasn't supposed to, I survived though I wasn't supposed to, I defied the Capitol with my love for a boy, and I unwittingly started an uprising. As I realise this, Snow's plan becomes clear to me, and I struggle to control the urge to cry out.

They're going to reap Prim again.


	2. Everdeen Girls

**A/n: **I've decided that this fic will alternate between Katniss's and Peeta's POVs – because I really enjoy getting into Peeta's head (ahem) and why should Katniss get all the words? I'll mention the POV at the start of each chapter, though it's going to alternate.

*****So this chapter is from Peeta's POV.*** **

Also, huge thanks to everyone who followed, faved and reviewed the first chapter!

**Disclaimer**: Characters, setting, scenes and main story are the property of Suzanne Collins.

* * *

Chapter 2: Everdeen Girls

Cato is in my dreams tonight.

In the first one, he's sitting by a fire, polishing his sword. I watch, trying to mask my distaste, as the red gives way to silver. He grins at me, and then begins to list the ways in which he's going to torture Katniss before killing her when we find her. There are ten in all.

In the second, he and Clove are taking turns to shoot arrows and knives into Katniss, one from the front, one behind, while the tributes from District 1 hold on to me as I scream. I watch as she falls like a rag doll.

In the third, he is a mutt. My eyes fly open just as his teeth sink into Katniss's neck while I lie bleeding nearby, helpless.

It takes me a whole minute to realise that I'm at home, and Cato is dead. Fear has paralysed my three functional limbs, and it's a while before my hand discovers that it can move. I touch my neck lightly, heart thudding, and despite not wearing a shirt and having thrashed the blanket off at some stage, I'm sweating profusely.

Slowly, my eyes adjust to the moonlight streaming in through the thin curtain, and my heartbeat returns to normal. But the images in my head are too vivid, too gruesome. I know they won't let go of me, and it's no good trying to sleep.

I get up carefully, inching off the bed without any sudden movements, and reach out for my prosthetic leg. I'm still uncomfortably hot, so I attach it and walk slowly down to the kitchen for a glass of water. The fire is almost out, but gives off a warm glow. I think about the Quarter Quell announcement earlier, and whether it could have had something to do with my dream. I revisit the Games nearly every night, and this is certainly not the first time Cato has appeared with a vengeance, but something about that announcement made me very uneasy.

I turn on a lamp in the living room and drag my easel from the corner, placing it by the fireplace. Then I begin to paint.

I'm just mixing the perfect shade of red on the palette when a soft knock on the door makes me jump. Who could it be at this hour? Slightly nervous, I walk warily to the door and open it a crack.

It's Katniss.

"Hey!" I say, surprised, opening the door a little wider. Katniss has never visited me before. A cold blast of air hits me and I realise I'm still not wearing a shirt, which seems to make her uncomfortable, because her eyes widen slightly as she notices, and then she stares at her boots.

"Nightmare?" she asks.

"Yeah," I reply, shuddering.

"Me too," she says, squinting at the region just above my head. "Can I come in?"

"Of course," I say, moving to let her in. "How did you know?"

"You've got paint on your forehead. And a paintbrush in your hand," she replies, and focuses on it like she's never seen a paintbrush before. How cute.

"Here, make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back," I say after a pause. She seems shaken up, but she doesn't seem to want to talk about it – yet. I decide to put her out of at least part of her misery by putting on a shirt.

When I return to the living room, she's sitting on the couch, staring at the embers in the fireplace. I head over to it, and soon it's crackling merrily. I sit down and look over at her. "Do you want to talk about it?" I ask carefully.

She looks right into my eyes then. Her eyes scream yes, but slowly, she shakes her head.

"Oh."

"I can't sleep," she says. "Can I…can I watch you paint? For a while?"

I hesitate. She's never seen me paint before, but the only time she saw my paintings, she said she hated them. I can understand that. Sometimes, I hate them too.

"Um, are you sure?" I ask.

She nods. "If it's okay with you, I mean, I don't want to…intrude."

As if she could ever intrude. "Of course you can watch," I say, "it's just…I don't think you're going to like what you see."

She shrugs. "Couldn't be worse than what I saw in my dream."

Uh, yeah it could.

But I don't say anything, and start painting again. At first, I'm a little nervous – not because I'm being watched while I paint, but because it's soon going to become pretty apparent that this is a scene from a horror we both want to forget. Katniss must know that my painting will be something from the Games, especially because I woke up from a nightmare, so she won't be expecting fields of sunflowers – but she's never seen Cato-the-mutt.

I try to paint all the parts first that are not the main event, stalling in my own way. I must have been really engrossed, because I suddenly become aware of soft breathing and the corner of my eye spies bare feet over the arm of the couch. Katniss has fallen asleep.

I put my paintbrush down and go to the adjoining room, returning with two comforters and a thin mattress. I cover Katniss with one, grab a spare cushion off a chair, and arrange the mattress on the floor. When her screaming begins, the closer I am, the better.

* * *

When I wake up the next morning, the living room is bright, and the couch is empty. Katniss must have slipped out – she can move so silently you wouldn't know she was there. It's a bit unnerving at times.

I roll around a little, but now that I'm awake, it's hard to ignore how uncomfortable the mattress is, not to mention sleeping with my prosthetic on for all those hours. I get up, and then sink on to the couch, still drowsy. I close my eyes, but open them again after a few minutes.

I head over to the kitchen counter to make myself a cup of tea, and notice that three of the cheese buns from last night have been stolen. Grinning widely, I put the last one in the oven for a second to warm it up.

I'm just about to bite into it when a soft knock on the door makes me jump. _What, is she back for the last bun?_ I think, somewhat grumpily. Putting it back in the basket, I walk to the door and open it.

It's Prim.

This is all getting a bit strange.

"Prim!" I exclaim, even more surprised than I was to see Katniss. I don't hesitate to open the door, and Prim steps in, looking worried.

"Morning, Peeta," she says softly. "I can't stay long, I'm going to be late for school." She takes off her coat, though, and turns to me. "You can't tell Katniss I came here," she continues gravely.

"Where is she?" I ask.

"Woods," replies Prim.

"She went back to the woods?" I yelp. I thought she'd finally begun to listen to everyone who told her it was dangerous.

"I think so. I haven't seen her at all, actually, or I would have stopped her, obviously," says Prim seriously. "But where else would she go?"

Where else indeed?

"Here," I say, leading Prim over to the counter. "Want a cheese bun?"

She shakes her head. She looks supremely worried about something.

"Prim, what is it?" I ask. It must be something serious if she sought me out over Katniss to confide in – _and_ wanted to hide it from her. Was it something about Katniss? Did something happen? Is that why she came here last night?

Prim takes a deep, shaky breath.

"You know the announcement last night?" she says. "About the Quarter Quell?"

I nod, my fingers gripping the counter.

"I think they're going to reap me…again," says Prim, trying, but not succeeding, to hide her terror.

"_What_?" I ask, stunned. "What…why…what makes you say that, Prim?"

"It all fits," she whispers. "We all knew something was going to happen, and I don't know any details, but I know Katniss has been afraid about something. She talks when she's having a nightmare, you know."

Yes, I do know.

"She's scared of something. Of Snow. She's worried because even though she won…you both won. She never tells me anything because she's always trying to protect me," Prim shakes her head in frustration, "but some things I can guess."

I look at her. How much has she guessed? I know Katniss would never forgive me if I told Prim something she didn't want me to, so I just say, "But what has this got to do with yesterday's announcement, Prim? Why do you think they'd reap you again?"

She fidgets. "It's…just a guess. I could be wrong. But the Quells are always…more, aren't they? I mean, look at what they did for the other two. And this year, they're only removing the option to volunteer? It doesn't seem that harsh, somehow."

I still don't get it.

"How will that affect anyone?" she continues. "The Career districts will still reap someone who has been trained, and no one else ever volunteers. Except…"

Except…Katniss. Katniss volunteered. President Snow is not happy that Katniss volunteered. But will he really reap Prim again? Could he do that? The reaping is supposed to be based on luck…but I'm not naïve enough to think that it couldn't be rigged. Things have happened to Victors' families far too often to be mere coincidences.

I can't tell Prim she's wrong. I can't give her a false hope, because I know something like that could happen. It's not beneath Snow. And if I admit it to myself, from his point of view, it does sound like the perfect plan. The perfect punishment. I feel nauseated.

Prim is staring at me.

"Peeta," she says, before I can respond. "You have to help me train."

I stare at her, stunned. She doesn't seem to want consolation at all. Not for the first time, I see Prim as someone strong, less fragile than everyone else would believe. I see her as…Katniss's sister. Different in every way, yet so similar.

"Prim," I say finally. "You have to talk to Katniss. She'd want to know, she'd want to help."

"Peeta, you know full well how Katniss will react if I say something like that to her. She won't listen to me, even if she knows I'm right. She'll dismiss it, and she certainly won't help me train. It'll freak her out. She can never be calm about anything concerning my safety…especially not something like this."

I have to admit this is a likely scenario. But did Katniss already realise this? Is that why she came here last night? She was agitated by more than a nightmare. She wanted to say something…but didn't. Why didn't she?

"Prim. I don't know about this," I say, shaking my head. "I can't lie to Katniss about something like this. She'd never forgive me. Us."

Prim looks stricken. "I don't want to lie to her either, Peeta! I really, really don't. But…if I'm going into the arena, I at least want to have a fighting chance." She says it matter-of-factly, but her blue eyes sparkle with tears.

Is this our window to run? Could we do it?

With a jolt, I suddenly remember the rumours about the houses in the Victors' Village being bugged. We have no proof, but it's more than likely. I panic slightly, trying to think back to everything we've just talked about, but if reaping Prim is Snow's plan anyway, us realising it isn't going to change much.

"You do know that I'm not much of a fighter, right?" I say. "Katniss is, she's the one with the bow and arrow, the aim, the fire to kill someone if they harm her friends and family. I just got lucky, because of her. She's the survivor. I'm not…much."

Prim's blue eyes, so much like mine, are scornful. "Please, Peeta. Don't underestimate yourself. We all saw what you did in the arena! The Cornucopia bloodbath, you survived it, you managed to team up with the Careers…"

My face must have reflected how revolted I feel thinking of all those things, (and that tribute I killed, after the Careers maimed her, yes, I killed her, though I probably did her a favour. She was pleading with me to kill her, I still hear her in my dreams) because Prim lays her hand on my arm, and says, "…we all know you hated it, but you did it, Peeta. For Katniss. And it took a great deal of strength, and bravery, and it took Cato quite a while to hurt you with his sword even though all you had was a knife."

Prim's nice.

I have to admit that I hate hearing her talk like this, but she's no longer a child. She's seen a lot more than many of her age. Besides, she didn't make me _promise_ to not tell Katniss. Maybe I can hint at it somehow and get her to guess…

"Okay, Prim. I'll do what I can to help," I say. Maybe we can find a way to leave. Maybe Prim won't get reaped. Maybe Katniss will find out about all this and…I am not a fast runner.

"Really?" Prim exclaims, and her eyes almost shine. Almost, but neither of us can wave away the gravity of the situation. "And you promise to say nothing about all of this to Katniss? No hints?"

Damn it.

But Prim is looking at me with so much hope that I don't have the heart to refuse.

"I do."

Prim smiles. "I have to go to school. We'll figure out how to do this," she says.

I nod, thinking about what I've gotten myself into. But if the worst does happen, at least Prim will have something going for her. If we tell Katniss, she may well try to be protective, but there's nothing stopping Prim's name from coming out of the reaping bowl, and there will be no one to take her place this time. If this is what Katniss was worried about last night, all I can hope is that she decides to take me into her confidence, and then we can work together.

"Peeta?" says Prim.

"Yes, Prim?"

"I do want that cheese bun."


	3. Lakes and Cupcakes

*****This chapter is from Katniss's POV.*** **

**A/n:** I've been obsessed with the photographs of Tamas Deszo of late, and there's a good chance my descriptions of District 12 are influenced by them. Check him out! Also, this is an extra-long chapter – sorry about that, I just had too much ground to cover!

As always, huge thanks for follows and favs, though I would LOVE some more reviews – they're what help me improve and encourage me to write and make sure I'm keeping you interested :)

**Disclaimer**: Characters, setting, and main story are the property of Suzanne Collins.

* * *

Chapter 3: Lakes and Cupcakes

I haven't told anyone about what's terrifying me every second of every day.

I'm not quite sure why, because maybe it really would help to get it off my chest, to have someone share the horror, maybe even have someone tell me I'm being stupid and paranoid and there's no way they could reap Prim. I can't scare my mother or Prim by telling them, but I almost told Peeta. After the nightmare of Prim's little body breaking like shards of glass, my feet carried me to Peeta's house, not caring that it was two o'clock in the morning, or what the implications of me showing up at his house at that time of the night would be. He was awake, though, and half naked (something my mind has not hesitated to remind me of every time I think of that night) and when he asked me what was wrong, I wanted to tell him, I really did, but I said nothing. I think a part of me, a tiny superstitious part, feels as though _saying_ it will make it real. As long as it's just a thought, alive only in my head and no one else's, it may disappear. Vanish. Die.

Instead, I just sat and watched him paint till sleep came. Watching him mix the perfect shades of green, gold, brown, even red, and his steady hand as he placed strokes both deft and careful on the canvas was oddly calming. Just like watching him bake is calming. Hell, maybe it's just that _Peeta_ is calming. He never stresses me out, except when he's telling me he loves me or something. He makes me feel safe.

I shake my head a little to clear it, and stare out over the foliage that is thickening with each passing day. I've started coming back into the woods, despite everyone's warnings. I feel a defiance, a challenge, a need to do something against the rules, even if it's crawling under a fence with a recklessness that will probably be my own undoing. But I need to think, and this is the only place I can do it.

I still want to take everyone I love and go into hiding, more than ever since the announcement. But every time I try to plan it, my mind keeps coming up with problems and loopholes. Still, the Quell is a few months away yet. Until I've ironed out the details, we're here in District 12, facing whatever the Capitol has planned for us. There's no time to waste.

* * *

On Thursday, I wait for Prim outside the school. She will be exhausted from classes, but I can't wait until the weekend. I did promise our dad that I would teach her how to swim.

I'm not sure if I'm imagining it, but everything looks greyer than it should at this time of the year. District 12 has never exactly been beautiful – there's no time for beauty when you're too busy trying to fill your stomach. I've never been starved for colour in the forest, but the only colour in the town comes in rare splashes – like cakes in the bakery window or clothes on a washing line. But today, everything looks dull. Even the people. Everyone I've seen so far walks with heads bent and shoulders sagging, faces pinched and sparse clothing.

Prim walks out of the brownish building, which hasn't been painted in years, with two of her friends. They don't seem to be talking, but Prim's face lights up as soon as she sees me, making the light shadows under her eyes almost invisible.

"Katniss!" she cries, running up to me. "What are you doing here?"

"What, can't I pick up my baby sister from school?" I say teasingly.

She rolls her eyes, but her smile doesn't waver. She turns to give her friends a quick goodbye wave, and we walk towards the bakery.

"Did you eat lunch?" I ask. She nods, looking up at me curiously. Might as well get this over with.

"Prim, I was thinking about teaching you how to swim…the weather's better now…" I trail off.

Prim looks up at me, a slight frown on her face, and I brace myself for resistance.

"Now?" she asks.

"Well, I thought we could start now, it gets cooler towards the evening," I say cautiously. I had been expecting a vehement 'no' and possibly a tantrum. Prim hates the woods.

"But…" she begins, and my heart sinks. "I don't have a bathing suit."

I stare at her for a second, surprised. Quickly recovering, I point at my game bag. "I've got both of ours in here."

Prim looks thoughtful, then nods decidedly. "Okay, Katniss."

"Really?" I say, and then bite my tongue. Don't push it. Resistance may still be forthcoming.

She grins. "Yes."

I can't help but grin back. That was easy. "Let's get a snack at the bakery and then go," I suggest. She leads the way.

Even the bakery is nearly devoid of colour. A few trays of iced cookies and tarts sit by the window, but none of the beautiful cakes – which I now know Peeta used to ice – are there. Not much cause for celebration anymore, I guess. Or no one to afford them.

But Peeta is behind the counter, and the smile he flashes at us makes the bakery seem positively radiant.

"Katniss! Prim!" he says brightly. "Fancy seeing the Everdeen girls here! What can I get you?" He passes us a buttery cookie each without waiting for our reply. Prim and I exchange a glance.

"Two cheese buns," I say, my mouth full of cookie. Peeta grins. "To go."

"To go?" he asks. "To go where?" There's the grin again.

Prim grins back at him. "We're going to the woods," she says before I can stop her, but quietly. Great. Now Peeta is going to be a nuisance. Maybe that would be a good thing, I think, as guilt courses through me for putting my sister at risk.

But Peeta just chuckles. He knows as well as I do how much Prim hates the forest.

"No, really," says Prim. She's stopped grinning now, and looks Peeta directly in the eye.

This wipes the smile off his face, and he says, "Oh." Then he frowns slightly, clearly confused, and opens a paper bag for our buns.

He doesn't try to dissuade us, though, and I'm quite enjoying his discomfort, so I say, "You want to come along?" I'm grinning now.

"Sure!" he replies, putting a third cheese bun in the bag.

"Huh?" I say. Peeta dislikes the woods as much as Prim.

No one pays any attention to me.

"Just give me a minute," he says brightly, and disappears into the back. I try to exchange a mystified glance with Prim, but she's busy examining some pastries.

I'm still standing there, confused and with cookie crumbs on my hand, when Peeta reappears sans apron and flour. I dust my hands quickly and fumble for my wallet, but he just gives an airy wave and picks up the paper bag. "On the house," he says, smiling down at me.

We step outside, Peeta and Prim already chatting, and me almost stumbling in my surprise at how this whole afternoon is turning out. It's not until I hear Peeta say, "Katniss?" that I realise they've stopped and turned to look at me.

"Are you alright?" Peeta asks, looking at me carefully.

"Yes, yes," I say, mustering up a smile that probably looks quite painful. What has gotten into me? I give my head a little shake again.

"You want to lead the way?" he asks.

I nod tersely, and begin to walk slightly ahead of them. They're not talking anymore, but the silence isn't uncomfortable. We all look around a little nervously as we reach the fence, and I strain my ears for the tell-tale sound of electricity, but I'm rewarded with silence. I shimmy easily under it, and so does Prim, but Peeta looks slightly uncomfortable. I know it's harder for him with his leg, and I hold out my hand to help him up, putting the other behind his back to steady him.

"Thanks," he says, and gives me a warm smile that I return almost instantaneously.

We set off through the forest, not making undue effort to be silent, but we don't make too much noise. I retrieve my bow from its hiding place, just in case. Every once in a while, I point out plants and berries, both edible and poisonous, like my dad used to. I try to sound casual, as though I'm doing it out of habit, but I can sense both Prim and Peeta hanging on to my every word and looking at the plants carefully, as though they're memorising them. I steal a glance at Peeta, wondering if this churns up memories of the arena. If it does, his face doesn't betray it.

There are no animals to point out because we're not quiet enough, but once or twice, I point out mockingjays in the trees. They remind me of Rue. Peeta seems to understand this, because the second time, he grabs my hand and gives it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

After walking for forty minutes, I keep expecting either of them to start complaining, but they don't. For a while, none of us says anything – I don't need to point out water lilies – and then Prim's squeal breaks the silence.

The lake where my father used to bring me, where he taught me how to swim, slowly comes into view. I can't help but sneak a sidelong glance at Peeta to see his reaction. I'm not disappointed. His mouth opens in wonder as he takes in the scene, and his eyes sparkle in excitement. Then he walks on by himself, parting the trees till there are none left, and turns to us delightedly.

"Katniss, it's so beautiful," he says in quiet joy.

I smile and look down at Prim. "Dad used to bring me here," I say, and she has tears in her eyes, but she's still smiling widely. "I've never brought anyone here."

"No one?" asks Peeta, the surprise in his voice evident. I shake my head. He turns back to the lake, smiling slightly, and then sinks down on the ground by the edge.

I take Prim to the little concrete room which is all that remains of what once used to be a row of houses for people to hang out by the lake and fish, and we change into our bathing suits. When we come back out, Peeta raises an eyebrow at us, and then pulls off his shirt easily. He's unzipping his pants when I yell and cover Prim's eyes.

"Peeta! What are you doing?" I say loudly, staring at some trees.

He laughs. "Katniss, I'm not going to swim in my clothes."

"But…but," I splutter, at a loss. Prim giggles and I nudge her with my elbow, my hands still over her eyes.

"You didn't tell me why we were really coming here, or I would have been more prepared," he says, "besides, it's not like you haven't seen me in my underpants before, darling." I can tell that he's doing his best to hold back his laughter, and I glare at the clump of trees while Prim's giggles grow louder. I hear his pants hit the ground. I'm still looking everywhere but at him when I hear a splash.

"I'm concealed now," he announces. Prim pushes my hands away and I look to the lake carefully. Prim laughs and I can't stop the scream of mirth that leaves my lips. Peeta is concealed, all right. Only his head is visible, all golden and bobbing up and down, a grin plastered to his face and his eyes teasing.

Prim and I wade into the lake, and for the next couple of hours, I teach them the basics of staying afloat and the different strokes. They're both fast learners, and eager to help each other out. Once, I find myself slightly fixated by the way the droplets shine on Peeta's back, and I take this as an opportunity to swim a little further out by myself while Peeta watches over Prim.

As I swim back to them, Peeta turns to me and says, "You know, I think this is the first time we've ever done anything normal together."

"Yeah," I agree, looking into those blue eyes, his wet hair plastered around his forehead. "Nice for a change." We all smile then.

* * *

It's on our third day at the lake that things begin to happen.

Prim does slightly better than Peeta, who is weighed down by his size and prosthetic leg, but he's determined. I'm satisfied with the progress they've both made; impressed, even. I've just called it a day and we're getting out of the lake, dripping, when I hear it.

Footsteps. Two pairs of footsteps, and the unmistakeable click of a weapon. It comes from behind the trees nearest to us, but I don't wait. In a trice, I've got an arrow docked in my bow, ready to shoot. Peeta stands beside me, Prim pushed behind us, and I notice the glint of a knife in his hand, positioned, ready to fly. I guess once you've been in the arena, you're always prepared.

For a few seconds, there's no sound. Then the leaves begin to rustle, and a Peacekeeper stumbles through. If they hadn't stumbled, we might have already shot them, but this makes us pause. A pair of light brown eyes stares up at us, and the weapon drops.

"Stop!" a feminine voice cries, almost frantic. "Please!" Peeta and I exchange a look, but our hold on our weapons doesn't slacken.

I hear more rustling. "Who's there? Who are you?" I say harshly.

The woman in front of us gulps, but doesn't say anything. Then she holds up something in her hand, something that looks like a round cracker with a bird stamped on it.

"A mockingjay," says Peeta quietly. I've recognised it, too. "What does it mean?" he asks, not quite as harshly as me.

"It means we're on your side," the woman replies, her voice still wavering, but stronger.

"Who else is back there?" I ask.

"That's my friend, Bonnie. She's hurt," says the woman. Then she adds, "I'm Twill. We escaped from District 8."

District 8! Peeta and I exchange another look, and I know we're both thinking the same thing. At any rate, these are not enemies. I pick up her weapon as we lower ours just as Bonnie comes into view, her face shining with sweat from the effort of walking on her injured foot.

Without a word, Peeta pulls on his trousers over his swimming trunks, and then lifts Bonnie in his strong arms and walks towards the cement house. Prim runs behind him, and Twill and I follow. She looks at me cautiously once or twice, but says nothing.

Inside the cement house, Peeta has helped Bonnie onto the chair and Prim is already examining her foot. She pronounces it not broken, but twisted, and bandages it up the best she can with a strip of cloth Twill provides. Prim and I put on our clothes over our bathing suits, too, and Peeta divides up all the food we brought between the two of them. They look like they desperately need it. They eat a bun each hungrily, and then they tell us their story.

The uprising in District 8, which I saw on Mayor Undersee's television, had failed. Snuffed out. The factory where they made Peacekeeper uniforms was bombed, and it was by a lucky chance that they managed to escape. They'd been on the run ever since. They're trying to make it to District 13, because they believe it still exists, only underground. They believe the Capitol left it alone because of its reputation as a manufacturer of nuclear weapons, and it's flourished ever since.

I'm not sure I believe them, though a part of me desperately wants to. Peeta and I ask questions, and Bonnie and Twill do their best to answer, but the truth is there isn't much to go on. It's the only hope, the only course of action left to them, and that's what they're counting on.

As evening approaches, we begin to get nervous. We have to get out of the woods. Something in the air doesn't feel right. I look over at Peeta, and he seems to read my expression, because then he starts to explain to them that we need to be going. Prim hugs them both and wishes them luck, and they look at us in what is unmistakeable gratitude…and something else? Twill walks over and takes my hand in both of hers, saying, "I can't believe we met you both. You're all everyone has been talking about," while Bonnie nods frantically in the background. She repeats the gesture with Peeta, who gives her a quick hug, and then we leave.

My mind is spinning with all the information, but I try to ignore it and focus on the trek to the fence. We've stayed out much later than usual, and getting back to District 12 is my top priority. Peeta and Prim don't say anything either, and I can tell by their panting that they're trying to keep up with my pace. We make it to the fence just as the last rays of sunlight are fading over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of Peeta's favourite colour. He catches me looking and I can tell by his smile that he knows I've made the association.

We go under the fence and I can't help but breathe a sigh of relief.

* * *

None of us mentions District 13 again, because what happens the next day pushes it out of our minds. I'm sitting at the counter in my kitchen when I hear scuffling outside our door, and I've barely had time to think that it must be another patient when I hear Peeta's voice. I run to the door and fling it open to find him and three others holding a stretcher on which lies someone who has been whipped so badly that he looks like a mess of blood and flesh. Peeta gives me a look of concern that I don't immediately understand, and I look at the patient again.

It's Gale.

I feel as though time has stopped. I think my eyes and mouth are wide in horror but my body is paralysed, and I can't do anything but stare at my best friend as he moans in pain. Gale, who has always seemed so strong, so invincible, lying there, beaten by the regime. That sight fills me with a fear like no other. My mother and Prim get to work trying to keep him cool and doing their best to soothe the pain while I just stand there, dumbfounded. It's only when I feel Peeta's arms wrap around me that I am able to move.

I fling myself out the open door. He doesn't follow.

Gale is unconscious that entire night, and I sit by him in a chair. I know I couldn't sleep even if I wanted to. My mind is in turmoil, a whirlpool of thoughts and plans and fears and ideas that churn until I can think no more. But I do know two things. One, that we can't run away from District 12, because too many people will face the consequences. I can't do that to them. I can't be that selfish, I can't take the people I care about and leave the rest to die. The Capitol, I know, will have no trouble dropping bombs on the poorest district in Panem. I can finally see what Gale was trying to tell me when he refused to run with me, and I'm ashamed it took him being whipped within an inch of his life for me to realise it.

And two, that I am utterly terrified.

My tears haven't quite dried on my cheeks when Peeta rouses me and sends me up to bed, sitting down in the chair I just vacated. When I come downstairs the next afternoon, he has disappeared.

* * *

Nearly a week goes by before Gale is well enough to leave our house and go home. He doesn't go back to the mines, though, because the day after he was whipped, the mines were shut. And the Hob was burnt down. Two days after that, Prim announced that school was going to close indefinitely from the next day, too. I think the Peacekeepers are doing their best to make sure that people don't get the opportunity to band together in large numbers. By the end of that week, I realise that the concern I'd felt for people a week ago was nothing. That was survival. _This _is what starvation looks like. The number of children signing up for tesserae soars, but the food arrives soiled and rotten.

Prim has been hanging out a lot with Peeta now that she no longer goes to school. I ask her what they've been doing together.

"Baking," she replies vaguely.

"Oh. What did you bake?"

"Cupcakes," she says, before running off to help with our newest patient.

We haven't gone back to the woods again. None of us mentions it, but it's sort of a given. Things are getting out of control and we don't need to give the Peacekeepers another excuse to hurt us.

Peeta comes by sometimes to drop Prim off after she spends the day with him. Once, as he sips his tea, he turns to me and says, "Katniss, I was thinking, maybe we should start watching videos of the previous Quells and Games, the ones that happened before our time."

I nearly choke at the shock of hearing him, or anyone else for that matter, mention the upcoming Games. So far, we've managed to successfully avoid the subject. I can sense that Prim is looking over at us attentively, so I nudge him with my foot to tell him to shut up.

"We're going to be mentors this year, after all," he goes on, undeterred. I kick him hard now. "What?" he says dimly.

"We'll talk later," I hiss at him, but he doesn't drop it.

"Katniss, I…"

"Peeta! I said we'll discuss it later."

But it's too late. Prim walks over to us, having heard the entire exchange, and says, "I want to watch them too."

I glare unceremoniously at Peeta. What was he thinking? He's usually quick to take a hint, and I'd kicked him twice. Ugh.

"Prim, don't be silly," I say, and sip my tea.

"I'm not, Katniss," she replies, mimicking my tone.

"What's gotten into you? You're too…"

"_Don't_ say young, Katniss. Please. I watched my sister go into the arena. I think I can handle it," she replies, hands on her hips.

"Well, I think I'm gonna go," says Peeta hurriedly, and begins to head over to the front door. I give him the filthiest look I can muster.

* * *

The next day, I decide to go and pick up Prim from the bakery. I wander around for a while, stalling, because I'm still annoyed at Peeta. It's as I get nearer to the fence that I hear it.

The unmistakeable crackle of electricity.

I jump back, even though I'm not nearly close enough to touch it. And with this latest development comes a new fear. I hadn't been intending to go back to the woods, and I had all but given up the idea of running away, but knowing that now there's nowhere to run to makes me feel even more like a caged animal. Here we are, cooped up in District 12, with food and money steadily running out. Peeta and I have been trying to ration out whatever we can and give it to others, but there's just not enough anymore.

I walk towards the bakery and call out to Prim without entering. She comes out from the back with Peeta a few seconds later, where they had apparently been looking at a recipe book. "Hi," they chorus. Peeta's grin irritates me thoroughly.

"Hello, Peeta," I say shortly. "Prim, you ready to go?" She nods and hurries out of the bakery, giving Peeta a quick wave.

"Since when do you like to bake?" I ask her.

She smiles easily. "Well, it's not so much that I like to bake, it's that I like cake," she replies, giggling.

I can't help but grin back. Then she starts telling me, rather enthusiastically, about how much fun it actually is, and how she likes spending time with Peeta. "If only he were a bit younger…" she trails off.

"If he were a bit younger…what?" I yelp.

"You know," she says, giggling again.

"Oh my god, Primrose Everdeen! Do you have a crush on Peeta?"

"Well, who doesn't?"

I hadn't thought about this. She's right, though. There's always an unusually high number of girls around when he's working. That can't be a coincidence. They don't look at me too kindly, though, I think, with a smirk.

"He's my fiancé," I say lightly.

"And I'm your favourite sister," she giggles.

I nudge her and start giggling too. I think Prim might be the only person in the world who can make me giggle.

* * *

It's almost midnight when our phone rings.

I pick it up before the second ring, so as to not wake my mother and Prim. Heart beating wildly, I say, "Hello?"

"Katniss?"

"Peeta?"

"Yeah," he says, "Sorry I woke you."

"Peeta, is everything alright?"

"Oh yeah, yeah. Um…"

"What is it?"

"Could you…do you think you could…come over?"

"Now?"

"Soon."

"What's wrong, Peeta?"

"Nothing…"

"I'll be right there."

I hang up, put on my jacket and walk downstairs as quietly as possible. I grab a knife from the kitchen and tuck it into my pocket, just in case. I slip into my boots and slink out the door. Peeta lives three houses away, but I run anyway. I knock quietly.

The door opens almost at once. I look at Peeta carefully, taking in his appearance. He doesn't seem hurt or shaken. He's got paint near his forehead, but he's wearing a shirt.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

He chuckles. I stare. "Nothing's wrong," he replies. "I wanted to show you something. Will you come in?"

I step in cautiously, still staring at Peeta as though he's going to break down any second. He grins. "Close your eyes," he says.

"What?" I snap.

"Please?"

I give him a slightly irritated look before complying. He better have a good reason for this charade.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and guides me across the room. Then he stops. "Okay, open your eyes now."

I'm not sure what to expect, but I'm not a fan of surprises and I'm glad he didn't make me play the guessing game.

If he had, I would've definitely lost. I'm staring at my lake.

Peeta has painted the entire wall, which used to be completely bare apart from one of his paintings framed and hung on it, with the woods. With _my_ woods. It looks so real I feel I'm going to hear the mockingjays sing any second. The light shines through the trees, soft and warm. The water on the surface of the lake sparkles. The cement house looks as grey as ever, but I still love it. There are water lilies, and dandelions, and katnisses, and primroses, and about a dozen other plants I'd pointed out to him and Prim. I drink it all in thirstily. I miss my woods.

I barely notice that I've sunk onto the floor as I stare at the painting. Peeta sits beside me. I can tell he's looking at me for a reaction, but I'm having trouble speaking.

"I thought I'd paint something you might actually not hate, for a change." There's that bright smile of his again. I haven't seen it in the last few days. "I thought, since you can no longer go to the woods, that I'd bring them to you…in a way." He sounds almost nervous. I still can't speak, but I look at him, and my eyes are full of tears. I can't imagine how he managed to paint all this in such a short time. For me. It's for me, that much is clear. And a little bit for him, too. All this while, I've been busy being annoyed at him, and he's been doing this.

"Thank you, Peeta," I whisper finally. "It's beautiful. So beautiful. I love it. You have no idea."

"Happy birthday, Katniss," he says softly, and smiles into my eyes.

My eyes widen. With everything else that's been happening, I had completely forgotten my birthday. Trust Peeta to remember.

He's still looking at me, smiling, and I feel slightly overwhelmed.

"I should go," I say, and then hate myself.

But he only says, "Okay," and begins to stand.

He walks me to the door. Just as I'm stepping out, I kiss him on the cheek, and a voice in my head whispers that the way his eyes light up at that is really the best present there could be.


	4. Haymitch's Defiance

*****This chapter is from Peeta's POV.*** **

More reviews, please! :)

**Disclaimer**: Characters, setting, and main story are the property of Suzanne Collins.

* * *

Chapter 4: Haymitch's Defiance

The knife whizzes past my head with uncommon ferocity and lodges itself in the wall.

"Well, I think we're done here," I say, smiling.

Prim looks mighty pleased. Her face is shining with sweat from the effort of chucking knives around for the last fifteen minutes, and the wall of what used to be my bedroom is peppered with scars. She knows she's done well; when we first started out last week, it became clear that it would be better to use spoons till she at least managed to aim for the right direction. But now, most of the time her knife actually sticks in the wall till we pry it out.

We decided to use my old room above the bakery for our training sessions. For one, no one, not even the neighbours, pays attention to loud noises coming from here. They're far too used to them to care. My mother has been known to fly into rages, and I have two slightly rowdy older brothers.

And secondly, it's a good camouflage for prying eyes – like those of Katniss. She would be inquisitive if Prim kept hanging around at my house, and we didn't know how we would explain that or prevent her from walking in on us. She goes there by herself, sometimes, to sit in front of the wall I painted for her birthday. Just thinking about that makes me so happy, and at the same time makes me want to tell her everything. No more secrets. But I promised Prim.

Here, my father gives us a heads up if she comes by, and we have enough notice to cover ourselves with flour or icing or something. We've been feeding her the lie that I'm teaching Prim how to bake, and I know that the guilt is eating us both from the inside.

Apart from improving her aim and being able to use a weapon of some sort, I've also been trying to help Prim learn some basic combat skills. Nothing like the wrestling I used to do, but a surprising number of those moves can be used in a scenario when you're trapped or when you don't have a weapon. It was Prim's idea. I'd been quite baffled at how to go about this training thing; even though I'd seen determination in Prim's eyes and demeanour, she's still only thirteen, and physically fragile – or so I thought.

As I stood around trying to strategise, Prim had said, "Peeta, I know I don't look like a fighter, but if there's one thing I've learned about from all this time helping my mother heal her patients, it's the human body."

I stared at her, nonplussed. She went on, "I know its weaknesses. And strengths."

And I began to understand. We took it from there. Using the body to its advantage and disadvantage. Elbows – you can ram them into the ribs of whoever is holding you from behind. Which parts of the body are the most sensitive to a good kick. Using the side of your hand as a weapon, a hard punch to the jaw or temple, using your fingers to stab someone's throat. Some of these I didn't even know. I don't think Prim would really want to use them – judging by the way her mouth turned down as she described them to me – but the fact that she knows about them makes me feel much better. None of these methods would kill, of course, but could effectively knock out or slow down a foe.

And if all else fails, spit.

After today's successful knife-throwing session, however, I decide that we could slow things down for one afternoon. We've been working hard for days, and Prim is starting to look exhausted. The slight dark patches beneath her eyes that appeared sometime after the Quarter Quell announcement have deepened slightly, and I can tell that it's not just me and Katniss that are plagued by nightmares.

"How about learning some camouflage techniques?" I suggest, trying to make it sound a lot more important than it's usually considered. "It did save my life, sort of," I add hastily, before she can raise her eyebrows at me.

But Prim only smiles, and her eyes sparkle with excitement. This part of our "training" she will actually enjoy. I feel a slight pang of remorse that it has fallen to my lot to teach this beautiful girl about fighting and death, but then I remind myself why we're doing this. We don't have a choice.

We head out into the backyard, where I want to teach her how to weave vines and leaves in a way that they reflect light off the surface of what they're concealing. While we experiment, silent for the most part, Prim suddenly says, "Katniss has been trying to teach me how to climb trees. A little bit."

This is a surprise. "Oh?" I say.

"Yes. Just around the Victor's Village, there are a few trees around that are easier to climb, or so she said. We went for a walk, and the next thing I know she's trying to get me up in branches like a squirrel. I didn't say no, of course. It could help," says Prim, quite earnest. Then she giggles. "She's also gotten a bit weird, almost _clumsy_."

"Clumsy?" I say. That doesn't sound like Katniss at all. The Katniss I know is careful, quiet, and purposeful.

"She keeps 'accidentally' knocking down things," Prim raises her fingers to make air quotes, "around me, or into me, even, to see if I'll catch them or react. Almost as if she's constantly trying to check my reflexes."

I stare at her. "That sounds like…she's come to the same conclusion," I say.

"Oh yeah, I'm pretty sure she has," replies Prim, matter-of-factly. "She's just dealing with it in her own way."

I shake my head, as Prim manages to more or less bury herself in a loose patch of grass.

* * *

The doorbell rings. I pat down the sofa one last time and hurry to the door.

"Hi," I say, smiling at my visitors.

Katniss and Prim smile back and step inside. They make straight for the couch while I collect the three mugs of cocoa I just made and take them over. For the last couple of nights, ever since Effie's package finally arrived, it has become more or less an after dinner ritual for us to sit and watch the previous Games' videos together. After Katniss kicked me (twice) for suggesting it, I had expected resistance, but she had agreed to the plan quite willingly. I think Prim might have had something to do with it. I can tell it makes her more uncomfortable than she'll admit, and she has tried to cover Prim's eyes on more than one occasion: the awful, slow beheading of a tribute in the 70th games while his ally was held down and made to watch; the brutal feast that drew the three remaining tributes – all Careers – together in the 61st games leading to the most gory battle imaginable.

"So, which one shall we watch today?" I ask, sitting down beside Katniss on the sofa.

"How about the last Quarter Quell?" suggests Prim. She meets my gaze briefly and then looks away. Katniss looks at me too, and there's something in her expression I can't quite fathom.

Then she says quietly, "That was Haymitch's."

I nod. "He won, though." But I know why she's hesitating. Even though the Games are public, it feels like some sort of breach of Haymitch's privacy. Like we ought to ask his permission. Well, we could just not tell him we saw it. "And the more we know about Quarter Quells, the better."

Katniss gives me a small smile that barely masks her discomfort. "Okay. Yes. Let's watch that one, then."

"Okay," I say, and head to the box full of the tapes. Thanks to Effie's immaculate organisation, it takes about two seconds to locate it. I put it in and hit 'play', and then settle back on the couch.

The odious anthem rings through my living room, followed by the Quarter Quell announcement. The horror planned for the fiftieth Quell was that each district would have to send in double the number of tributes. We watch as district after district throws up two boys and two girls, some, like those of 1, 2 and 4 looking excited at the anticipation of the challenge, but most either resigned or terrified. Finally, after forty-four children have been reaped, we come to District 12.

A girl from the Seam is called, and then one who is clearly a merchant's kid. The name seems to mean something to Katniss and Prim, however. Maysilee Donner.

"She was our mother's friend!" exclaims Prim, as we watch two girls clinging to her and sobbing. One of them looks uncannily like…

"I think that's your mother hugging her," I say. Katniss nods. Her eyes are fixed on the screen as she stares at the drama that unfolds. Is she remembering our Reaping from last year? Is she dreading the one that's soon to come?

"She looks like Madge," she says finally.

This stirs something in my mind. "Oh. Yes. I think that's Madge's mother, Maysilee's sister. Her twin sister. My dad mentioned that once." I feel sick now, but I know Katniss must feel far worse. She and Madge have gotten pretty close of late.

She whispers quietly, so that only I can hear, "My mockingjay pin. It was hers. Madge told me it was her aunt's. I didn't know…that…" she can't continue. Her grey eyes are filled with pain as she makes the connection, realising how much more her pin means now. I take her hand and she holds on to it. I have a feeling we're going to need that to get through this tape.

I sense rather than see her put her arm around Prim as Haymitch's name is called. He looks formidable – strong, clever, alert, utterly unforgiving. No one really ever sees the tributes from 12 as a threat, and I can tell that this is going to be a great advantage to him. Maybe it will work the same with Prim…but District 12 won last year. With not one victor, but two. No one is going to take that lightly, especially not if the tribute is the most recent victor's sister. I bite my lip in frustration. With all of the training we've been doing, I still know that the most important thing is strategy. To work the crowd, and to survive. We got lucky last year, and luck plays a huge role, undoubtedly, but we had a strategy too. An angle. And I haven't been able to come up with anything good for Prim yet. Maybe the sister angle will work if she can carry it off. Maybe.

The chariot rides and interviews go by quickly, though there is one snarky exchange between Haymitch and Caesar Flickerman that they don't cut out. Then, just like that, we're in the arena. We all gasp. I stare at the screen, transfixed, because the arena looks like some sort of paradise. Full of colour, beauty, meadows, fluffy clouds, flowers. Most of the tributes look delighted, but my first thought is that nothing good can come of this. It's an arena. The beauty is obviously there to distract, to throw them off their guard.

Haymitch seems to have realised precisely this, and has gathered a bunch of weapons and a backpack at the Cornucopia before most of the other tributes even move. He's off into the woods before the bloodshed begins. Could this be a good strategy for Prim? Would she be quick enough? Haymitch told us to run from the Cornucopia last year, and I'm pretty sure Katniss is faster than Prim, and I'm definitely stronger. Besides, the only reason Haymitch has gotten away this quickly is because the other players were disoriented. Most of the time, they make a beeline for the supplies, and there's so much confusion that it's probably easier to become an accidental target than an intended one. I think about how I barely got away with a few cuts and bruises last year, and Katniss was nearly killed twice. If it wasn't for Clove the first time and her backpack the second, that would have been it. I shudder. No. Prim will have to run.

I watch as Maysilee, a bit slower than Haymitch, dodges an axe and manages to pick up a backpack before fleeing the Cornucopia as well. The bloodbath is awful, given that there are so many more tributes this year, and the rate at which they are killed even after that is quite alarming. The Career pack of ten hunts several, and many die of poisoning from the plants, flowers, fruits, streams which, as I guessed, are deadly. _Find water _is what Haymitch had told us last year. But how would you know if the water was poisonous? I'd better remember to ask him about that. I grab a pen off the coffee table and write "water" on my hand.

Even more deaths happen as a result of vicious creatures – like squirrels and bright birds – that hide in the forest, and the mountain that erupts without warning. Gamekeepers are unbelievably sadistic, I think, before smiling. What a painfully obvious thing to think.

Maysilee manages to survive without any weapons by turning the dart gun in her pack into a poison-dripping one. Haymitch is nearly killed by Careers when she comes to his rescue, and they team up until there are only five tributes left. I barely register the fact that I'm watching the recording at the edge of my seat, terrified for my mentor even though I know the outcome. He discovers a force field at the end of the arena. His delight is short lived as he runs towards Maysilee's screams and holds her as she bleeds to death from being attacked by shocking pink birds. In the end, it comes down to him and the girl from 1 – an awful battle (Katniss is trying to cover Prim's eyes again) – when, finally, it seems as though Haymitch is going to die first, he runs towards the force field and the axe thrown at him boomerangs back into its owners head.

I sit there, stunned. It would be hard enough to watch even if I hadn't known the person I was watching, much less grown fond of him in the few months of our acquaintance. As the recording goes into the final interview, I can't help but feel slightly relieved. A part of me was afraid that what I was going to see Haymitch do in the arena would colour the way I thought of him, resent him for the people he'd murdered, even though I knew why. But I don't. I didn't see anything that made me think less of him; he was Haymitch all along, the Games didn't turn him into a monster.

I sneak a sidelong glance at Katniss, and she looks similarly preoccupied. She's frowning, but then she laughs suddenly. I look at her questioningly, and she asks for the pen I used to write on my hand earlier. She doesn't want to say it out loud for fear of who might hear, and Prim too, I suppose – but then I notice that, at some point between the final battle and the end, Prim has drifted off.

Katniss scribbles on her hand quickly, and then shows me the slightly messy scrawl. _It was almost as bad as us and the berries, what he did. _She still looks rather delighted.

I nod and grab another sharpie. _He turned the force field into a weapon, _I write.

_But against the Capitol too, _she scribbles underneath the first line. Then, _It made them look stupid. _I understand now what's amusing her. The fact that Haymitch outsmarted the Capitol, defied their plan by using the arena they created against the Games they created, and he won. Just like we won with our nightlock.

But I feel the relief from earlier ebb away slightly. Because though Haymitch outsmarted the Capitol, there would have been repercussions.

* * *

The next morning, I go to Haymitch's house with a fresh loaf of bread. He's usually passed out, but I know where he keeps the spare key, so I let myself in as always. Normally, I would just leave the bread on his table, make an attempt to tidy up the place a bit before giving up, and leave without getting so much as a twitch from him. Today, though, I prod him awake.

"Mmmpf?" he grunts groggily from his perch at the dining table, the knife in his hand flailing weakly. It's hard to reconcile this image with the sixteen year old version of him we watched yesterday.

"Morning!" I say loudly, knowing full well that it'll cause agony to his hangover, but I'm a bit impatient today. I set the loaf carefully on the counter, and then set about making some strong coffee for him. He looks at me grumpily but doesn't protest as I place the steaming mug before him.

After a few sips, he makes an attempt at politeness. "Why on earth are you here at this ungodly hour?"

"I'm always here at this ungodly hour," I reply with a grin, knowing it'll infuriate him. It's fun teasing Haymitch sometimes.

"Yes, maybe," he says, mimicking my tone, "but you're not usually chirping about the place. What's so special about today?"

"Nothing at all," I reply brightly.

Haymitch stares at me and then sighs, obviously deciding that this argument is not worth the effort before he's fully awake. As I cut thick slices of the bread, I wonder how best to broach the subject I came here to talk about. I feel a bit cruel doing this to him, but I have too many questions.

"Katniss and I have been watching the previous Games videos," I begin. "Effie sent them over."

"Mm hmm," says Haymitch, clearly not interested. He probably thinks he'll worry about the Games when he needs to. Or he'll be passed out for their duration, now that we're going to be mentors too.

"And Prim." I pass him a slice of buttered toast.

"What's that?" Haymitch says, looking for something to spike his coffee with.

"Prim's been watching the Games with us."

"Oh? Good for her, I guess." He curses a bit, and then gives up searching and starts on the toast. By which I mean that he observes it carefully, as though he expects it to start singing or something.

At any rate, he doesn't seem chatty.

"We think Prim's going to be reaped again," I say, the words a bit jumbled in my rush to get them out. They have an effect. The toast falls.

"What?" says Haymitch, but quietly. I can tell that his tone has nothing to do with the hangover, because his eyes are suddenly alert and his right hand clenches the handle of his mug a bit too tightly. Before I can continue, though, he gets up to turn on the blender, half-filling it with whatever he finds at hand – onions, pears – I begin to think he's finally lost it when I realise what he's doing. The blender will drown out our voices from any hidden microphones.

I move closer and explain our suspicions to him. I'm almost expecting, hoping even, that he's going to laugh or shake his head and tell us we've been a bunch of young, gullible fools. But he just listens, his eyes narrowed, and when no trace of amusement appears on his face, I begin to feel increasingly more desperate. Telling Haymitch about our suspicion makes it more real, somehow. I even tell him what we heard about other districts from Bonnie and Twill, the confirmation of rebellion, the theories about District 13.

He lets me finish. Then he picks up his toast and takes a bite.

"Well?" I probe, trying to catch his eye. He takes a while to answer. The blender quietens.

"It's possible," he admits, finally. I catch a glimpse of something – sorrow? – pass across his face. I feel awful.

"We watched your Games last night," I say in a small voice.

He looks at me then. "Oh?"

"What…" I begin, then clear my throat. "Snow couldn't have been happy about…how you won."

Haymitch turns back to his toast. "You bet he wasn't," he says, before taking a bite. He chews, swallows, and then adds in a flat, hollow voice, "My mother, brother, my girl…all dead within two weeks of my victory. Snow doesn't take anything lightly."

I just sit there as waves of horror wash over me, finally fully understanding why Haymitch keeps a weapon with him as he sleeps, and why he prefers to numb himself with alcohol while he's awake.

Haymitch says nothing at all about the rebellion or 13, which makes me think that either he already knows, or he's dismissive of it. The next time I drop in with bread, he's awake and shuffles a stack of newspapers off the table, presumably to give me space to put the basket. They're out of my sight, but not before I've had a chance to register the fact that they look old and yellow, and have front page headlines that I could swear were about the first rebellion and District 13.

* * *

Haymitch's behaviour continues to become stranger, but he doesn't confide in me, and I know better than to ask. He drops in at the bakery from time to time to use our phone – his own had been pulled out of its socket a long time ago – and I can't help but wonder how he could possibly think phone lines out of District 12 could be safe enough to pass messages over. But then I realise that Haymitch is obviously no fool. Either he's making some sort of arrangements without giving anything away over the phone, or he's counting on the fact that the Capitol is far too distracted and busy bombing districts. Then again, Haymitch loves to bait. Maybe he wants to be overheard, to send out a warning to the Capitol. It's hard to guess for sure until I know _what _his phone calls are about, though. I can't wait for an opportunity to eavesdrop.

Luckily, one arrives pretty soon. Prim is just leaving after one of our practise sessions, and as I'm going back upstairs, I hear his voice.

"…Odair and Mason. Yeah. Right, 'bye Chaff." He hangs up. Well, so much for that.

I melt into the wall as he hurries out of the room, and then follow him downstairs. To my astonishment, he's got a traveling case in his hand. He nods at me in greeting, then follows my gaze.

"I'm going away for a bit," he says offhandedly.

"Where?" I blurt out. It's a bit silly, but I can't help feeling slightly abandoned.

"District 11," he replies shortly. "Train's leaving soon, gotta go."

"When will you be back?" I ask, frowning at him.

"Soon."

As he steps out, though, he turns back once, and says, "You teach her all of those camouflage tricks of yours, boy." Then he vanishes into the sunlight.


End file.
